The dining-room was a fine sight, as by degrees it filled up, each table resplendent with Belgian, French or British uniforms; and we were loath to leave the warm hotel for the blinding rain without. Whilst waiting for the car Mr. C—— entertained us at the piano; anything we asked for he played—rag-time, opera, comedy, classical music. And the last sound, rendered more beautiful by means of his exquisite touch, that greeted us as we passed into the night was the haunting Barcarolle from the Tales of Hoffmann.
It was at Gravelines that we lost our way, at about ten o'clock. It was pitch dark. Nowhere a light visible, only the powerful acetylene headlamps of the car. We tried to find the main road and instead found ourselves back in the town. We made another effort, but failed. We aroused the inhabitants of a house where there seemed to be a red glow behind the closed shutters.
"Tout droit," they told us.
We went "tout droit," and found ourselves back again. We fetched out the proprietor of a hopeful-looking bar.
"Tout droit," he said. This time we ran into a barrier, and only just escaped being shot by the Belgian sentry.
"Back into the town—and tout droit," were his directions. We got back. There seemed no difficulty about that. We hammered in vain at a door. Judging by the noise, we succeeded in arousing every dog in the neighbourhood, but not a human being came to our rescue. More wild spurts! Yet it was not until some two hours later that we found ourselves on a broad road, which proved to be the right one. But our troubles were not at an end even then, for the driver, by this time, was in such a state of exasperation that he vowed nothing in the world would persuade him to go farther than Calais. "It's like driving in the sea!" he grumbled, as in truth it was, for the mud was literally flowing over the floor of the car, and our condition was indescribable.
Eventually, by means of much persuasion, not untinged by bribery, he was prevailed upon to finish the journey, throughout which he maintained for the most part a surly silence, interpolated only by semi-audible remarks about the folly of English people who would travel in all weathers.
December 13th. It is now necessary for every worker in the hospitals to have a permit. It is time, too, for many are the rumours of spies who have crept in and gleaned valuable information from the wounded.
A word about the position of volunteer workers. There is no denying that in the early days, before the staff of the Army hospitals was up to the full strength required by the extraordinary demands of modern warfare, they did an immense amount of good. But a plea must be put in for the central organisation, which has been effected so wonderfully by those in charge.